write you a love song
by paradisdesbilles
Summary: Modern AU. Not for the first time, Emma wonders how such a man settled on a backstage career when it is damn obvious he would thrive under the public gaze. Not that she would have it any other way. He's too good a manager for that.


She's handled a bottle of water the moment she steps out of the set, uncorking it with swift fingers before she takes a large gulp. The dress she wears, as beautiful and expensive as it is, doesn't allow for breathing properly and the only thing Emma wants is to go to her dressing room and rip it off her body. Or rip the TV host's head off his body, come to think about it.

Killian slides by her side, quiet as ever, as he looks down to his smartphone, checks that one event off her schedule. She sighs at the idea of more interviews, more questions, more rude hosts.

"I swear to god if the next one can't name the title of my album…"

Killian doesn't look up, used to her antics, but snorts anyway. "And that's Letterman for you, love. You've got Fallon tomorrow, it will be better."

It better be, she wants to snap back, but there are still people around them and she doesn't want rumours to spread – she doesn't want to be _that_ singer, the diva who has everything handed to her and who throws tantrums backstage. She's started too low in the food chain to become that kind of singer.

So she swallows down whatever snippy comeback was on the tip of her mouth, and nods to an assistant when she's shown to her dressing room. Killian waits by the door as she gets out of the ridiculously tight dress and into more comfortable clothes. Something fashionable, though, because photographers and fans alike will be waiting outside and the jeans-tee-shirt combo would be bad press, especially two weeks after the release of her new album. She needs to be perfect to the public eye, as collected as can be. Which involves dark pants that do wonders to her ass and a pastel blouse she would never wear given the choice. Add a black coat on top of it and she's ready to brave the crowd and the cold night wind.

When she gets out of the dressing room, Killian's phone is nowhere to be found as her manager leads against the opposite wall, arms folded on his chest. He looks like a rock star himself, more often than not, with his dark clothes and handsome face. Not for the first time, Emma wonders how such a man settled on a backstage career when it is damn obvious he would thrive under the public gaze.

Not that she would have it any other way.

He's too good a manager for that.

"You ready?" he asks, to which she replies with a raised eyebrow. "Okay, let's go."

The car is already waiting for them outside, and waits some more as Emma takes the time to sign autographs and take pictures with the fans – they've been waiting god knows how long in the cold, the least she can do is give them five minutes of her time. It's with three more plush ducks to add to her ever-growing collection, and twice as many letters, that she says goodbye to the smiling teenagers as Killian puts a hand on her lower back and pushes her towards the car at last.

She waves one last time when he closes the door for her, rolling his eyes. Yeah, like he cares about that, when her dedication to her fans gave her one of the best reputations in the musical world. This is the best press they'll ever get, her kindness to people who love and buy her music.

Silence settles in the car as she opens the letters she was given, reads them carefully. They are always the same – thanking her for her music and explaining how she saved them when their life wasn't all that easy, how she gave them hope, love. The letters are always the same, but they're all different too, and she cherishes them all. Just like she cherishes the ducks she's always given by her little ducklings, the name the media dubbed her fanbase.

She checks her phone then, sends a quick goodnight text to Henry with a reminded to brush his teeth and not to drive Grandma Ingrid up the walls. His reply comes a few minutes later – an emoji that rolls its eyes, followed by many other little pictograms of hugs and hearts and cute animals. She laughs and wonders if they created a Rosetta Stone for that language yet, because more often than not Henry doesn't even reply with real, actual English words.

Slipping the phone back into the pocket of her coat, Emma leans her head against the windows, watches the lights flashing by. "I hate Los Angeles."

"Tell me about it," Killian replies with a sigh. Hell, he hates the States, period, misses England with a burning passion. "Only three more days and we'll be back to Boston, though."

Back to Boston for a month of rehearsals before the beginning of her tour. She's exhausted just thinking about it, thinking about the hundred different shows she'll give in the next few months, soon followed by summer festivals. Exhausted but excited too, as always when a new tour is involved – excited to finally be able to sing her new album live, to see how the fans will respond to it, to hear them sing back to her. Adrenaline surges through her veins at the thought, and she barely conceals a smile.

Yes, she can't wait for it all.

…

She's well into the second week of rehearsals when a newcomer enters the studios. She wears black and high heels and a satchel by her side, brown hair pulled into a perfect ponytail – she screams "music photographer", basically.

Emma stops the band with a hand motion, fingers from the other hand still wrapped around the microphone in front of her, as she turns to Killian with a frown and silent question. He hurries by her side, summoned.

"Emma, this is Ruby Lucas. She'll be our official photographer this year."

Ah, yes. The book the producers want to release by the end of the tour, with a collection of pictures taken live and backstage – to give the fan a glimpse behind the curtain, the producers had said, but Emma knows it for what it is. Just a way to make more money off her success. While it lasts, maybe.

"Nice to meet you," she tells the other woman. She's everything but. And then, because she's Emma, she immediately adds, "No pics of my kid. That's the only rule."

Killian coughs with a tight smile, as to apologize for his client's behaviour. Emma is everything but sorry, though. She may release pictures of Henry every so often on her Instagram account, but that's it – she refuses for him to become that kind of child, to be scrutinized by the public eye while all he should be focusing on is his next art project and the fact that he's failing miserably at maths.

Despite Killian's obvious discomfort (and perhaps her own rudeness), Ruby Lucas nods in reply. "Dully noted. I can run every picture by you too, if you want."

That… actually really kind of her, and it takes Emma by surprise. She isn't used to photographers being so kind, but then again she isn't used to photographers who aren't paparazzi. So there's that.

When she goes back to her rehearsal, it's with the _snap snap_ sound of a camera following her moves every so often. But Ruby is discreet and quiet, scarily so, and Emma is impressed. If her pictures are as good as her behaviour as a photographer, the result will be amazing.

…

The only downside of going on tour is to say goodbye to her family. No matter how many times, it still is the hardest thing she has to do, and Emma barely manages to swallow down her tears as she hugs Ingrid tightly. She was thirteen the first time she picked a guitar, her adoptive mother always encouraging her to go this way if that was what she wanted, always driving her to music lessons, to school performances out of town. Then to little shows in shoddy bars, then to record labels while Emma's fingers trembled around her demo CDs. Ingrid has been here since day one, with her supportive smiles and proud eyes – even prouder now, with the awards decorating her living room.

"Have fun on the road, darling," she tells Emma before letting go of her with one last kiss on the cheek.

Emma turns to Henry then, her strong, beautiful son who's trying hard to hold it together. Sometimes she feels like the worst mother in the world for always leaving him behind, for barely being a mother at all. Her son, wise beyond his years, always telling her it is alright, always reassuring her that he is okay, he is proud of her. It never sits well with her, not really, but she knows taking him everywhere with him isn't a solution either – he needs a house, and friends, and a good school he attends on a daily basis, if she wants him to have a good future.

He jumps into her arms, engulfing her in one of his signature hugs, and it takes all of Emma's will not to lose it on the spot. She needs to be strong for him, even if she knows the next weeks will only consist of Skype sessions and text messages.

"Be good, okay? Be good to grandma."

"Yeah, yeah, sure…" Henry replies with the blasé voice of the teenager he's growing into. Sometimes she remembers how tiny he was when she recorded her first album, how he would always fall asleep on a couch in the studio – he's all grown up now, and it's hard to believe ten years have passed already.

"I'll see you in New York," she adds. "I love you."

"Love you too, mom."

She lets go of him after long seconds, holding on to him for longer than is necessary, and presses a kiss to his cheek. She offers him a last smile, then does the same for Ingrid, before she comes out of the house. The car is already waiting for her outside, her guitar and suitcases and Killian all ready to go, and so she sits by her manager's side with one last wave to her family.

On the way to the airport, Killian wordlessly hands her a tissue and huge sunglasses. She takes both, needing one immediately, knowing she will need the second object soon enough.

…

The first show of the tour is in Chicago, and it's as wild as shows go. The audience is crazy, her performance good if not perfect – it will take her a few more shows to really ease into the setlist – and she spent two hours outside afterwards, with the usual poster signing and picture taking. Emma is given more gifts than she can hold, and shoves it all in Killian's arms with a sarcastic little smile. His answering glare tells her all she needs to know about his opinion on the subject, but he knows better than to comment out loud when people are listening to her every word.

Ruby is already waiting in the bus when Emma climbs inside and, even if all she wants right now is to fall on her bed and sleep this one off until they make it to the next city, the blonde forces herself to stay awake for a little while longer. The two women go through the pictures taken that night (and Emma was right, the brunette is too talented for her own good) while Killian sits on the other side of the bus, talking over the phone and probably scheduling a radio interview or something of the like.

When Emma's head finally hits the pillow, she falls asleep in a second, every muscle sore and mind still buzzing with the adrenaline of the evening.

…

They have three days in Seattle before going back on the road – it's three days of rain, of course, because sometimes stereotypes turn out to be true. Since they're staying for more than one night in one spot, the record label is generous enough to book a bunch of rooms in a hotel not that far from the place where she will be playing. Mostly, it has a shower, a flawless Internet connection and room service, so Emma is in heaven after so many days spent on the road.

She takes the longer shower in her life, letting the water wash away days of sweat and exhaustion and too many a short night of sleep. Emma is careful as she washes her hair, fingers running through her tangled and dirty hair until they're smooth and shiny again. She doesn't mind the life in a bus – would have stopped a long time ago if she did – but it feels good being back to civilisation once more, her skin smelling of roses and fruits and _clean_.

The mirrors is blurry with steam when she steps out of the bathroom, one towel draped around her chest while she uses another one to dry her golden locks. Unsurprisingly, Killian has made himself at home in her room while she was otherwise busy – his laptop open on the table, both his and her phone plugged to it, files and papers all over the place.

She rolls her eyes.

He's always been a mess.

"Why do you always do that in _my_ room?" she asks as she kicks his shin with her bare toes.

Unsurprisingly, she barely gets a reaction from him; he doesn't even look up from his screen, fingers typing furiously on the keyboard. His hair is messy with too many a hand ran through it and his glasses are up on his nose – the latent Killian Jones Is Working look, and Emma knows better than to annoy him when he's in this state. Mostly because he's working on _her_ plans for the next weeks and _her_ career, so she knows better than to be a pain in the ass.

She moves to her suitcase and grabs a pair of sweatpants as well as a ratty t-shirt, and goes back to the bathroom long enough to pull the clothes on and braid her damp hair. When she comes back to the main room, her manager still hasn't moved an inch, so she rolls her eyes and snatches her phone before settling on the bed.

She texts back and forth with Henry for a while – it is way past his bed time by the other side of the country, but she pretends not to notice – before she turns on the TV and flips through the channels until she settles for some reality show about cooks and awful kitchens. The kind of show that doesn't need her entire attention so, after asking for Killian's opinion on the subject, she opens the Twitter app on her phone and calls for an impromptu Q&amp;A.

English man on TV is yelling about uncooked fish as she interacts with her fans, answering silly and interesting questions alike. (What's your favourite colour? Red.) (Who was your inspiration when you started? Joan Jett, mostly, but also the old jazz bands Ingrid listened to.) (When's the next music video? We're working on it!) (Which song? You'll see winky face)

"How do you feel about the Beeb's Live Lounge when we're in London?"

"Gosh, you're so British," she replies as she leans up on her elbows, throwing Killian a grin when he glares at her above the rim of his glasses. "That's the one where people do other people's covers, right?"

"Aye." She rolls her eyes. _So British_. "They're talking about a rendition of Royals, apparently."

"Hell yeah," is all she replies as she falls back against the pillow, holding the phone above her. "Ducklings are asking about the Grammys again."

Killian only hums in reply, already focused back on his own word. She reads between the lines, though, used to the spectrum of hums and groans and grunts he produces on a daily basis. She replies to a tweet about the awards show to the negative for now, saying to stay tuned for any news in the upcoming weeks.

They stay like that for an hour or so, him working her schedule for the European tour, her having fun in 140 characters or less. It's all very quiet but for the hum of the TV in the background and the sound of Killian's keyboard, quiet enough that Emma falls asleep at some point, exhaustion finally winning her over.

She's alone in her room when she wakes up the following morning, rain pocking softly against the window – the TV is turned off and Killian's shit is gone, and Emma lounges in the sheets for a little longer than is necessary, knowing she has nothing to do and nowhere to go until her sound check this afternoon.

She's having breakfast out of a room service trail when Killian makes his big entrance, computer under his arm and Ruby following him like the overactive puppy she is. The brunette steals a slice of orange from Emma's plate with a wink before she plops down next to her on the bed.

"I'll film you a bit tonight, you okay with that?"

On top of being her photographer, Ruby was also chosen to direct Emma's next music video. Live footage to which they'll add a bunch of backstage bits, the usual stuff – a first for Emma, though, and she isn't all that fond of the idea. She isn't the best at lip-synching in her videos, but at least she can be careful of her every facial movement when it's only her, the camera, and the direct. Live footages are a whole different thing altogether – raw, unplanned, unpredictable.

"Do I have a choice?" she replies, a little ironically and a lot rhetorically.

"No, you don't, love," Killian chimes in.

_Thank you, Captain Obvious_.

Ruby grins that feral smile of hers, the one Emma is growing accustom to, the one that says she's only asking because Emma is the star and so she needs to ask but she won't take no for an answer anyway. The blonde recognizes a lost cause when she sees it, and so she sighs, knowing to pick her battles.

Live music video it will be.

…

Killian decides along the way that teasing Ruby's work might be a good idea, for the fans to get excited over the upcoming book – everything for promotion and money, right? Which means that Emma's Instagram account becomes a mess of personal and professional pictures, because there is no way she stops posting her own stuff all of a sudden.

Of course, it gets the fans excited alright – Ruby's pictures are just that good, after all – and soon the photographer gets a bunch of new followers on her own social media accounts, getting excited every time she reaches a new milestone. Fans learn her name and start getting excited about her, too, the way fans always do – even more so when she posts a selfie of Emma and herself on Twitter, taken after the show in Baltimore.

So, really, Emma isn't all that surprised when they start asking personal questions about Ruby during Q&amp;A. This is Elsa all over again, Killian says with an eye roll. Only Elsa really happened, that one summer touring all the music festivals together, drunk on heat and wine and music. Elsa was real, even if they did a great job of keeping whatever happened between them hidden from the public gaze.

Ruby may be attractive (Emma isn't _blind_, okay?) but that stops there, and so she has to remind her fanbase, over and over again, not to read between the lines, not to overstep their boundaries and mix reality with fiction. Uselessly, of course, but a girl can try.

"Why don't they _ship_ me with you?" she asks, the word like venom on her tongue, pointing to Killian who's laughing his ass off. This isn't funny, and he's being an unprofessional ass about it, the moron. "You're like, my shadow."

His grin turns mocking between two laughs. "Something you trying to tell me, Swan?"

She scoffs. "You wish."

She does a good job of pretending she doesn't notice how red his ears are, just as she ignores the flash of… something (fondness? amusement? hope?) in his eyes, even as he shakes his head with another chuckle. She refuses to dwell on it, and instead pouts at the screen of her phone as if it would help stopping the income of questions and excitement from her fans.

_Red Swan_. They even got a name.

…

"Mom!"

She turns around to the sound of the very familiar, very missed, voice just in time for a little body to collide into her, all limbs and sharp bones and easy laughs. Henry engulfs her into a hug, one she too eagerly returns, a laugh of her own tumbling out of her lips as she grabs him and hauls him into her arms. He's too big and too heavy now, but he clings to her with his arms around her shoulders and his legs around her waist, so she ignores the pulls on her back as she grins into his little neck.

It feels like forever since the last time she saw him, Skype barely doing their relationship justice, and so she secures him with an arm beneath her little butt, unwilling to let go, as she awkwardly pulls Ingrid in a one-arm hug, let her foster mother kiss her tenderly on the cheek. It feels good seeing them, the both of them, again after so many weeks on the road – like she left a piece of her soul with them when she left, and she feels whole again by their side.

"How you doing, kiddo?"

"Fine!" is his cheerful reply even as he still presses his nose to her neck. "Can we go to Central Park? And the Museum of Natural History? And pizzas!"

She laughs at his enthusiasm, even more so when she shares a knowing look with Ingrid – Henry may love his mother, but he loves exploring and discovering even more, and New York makes for the biggest playground of all.

"Well, I don't know. We'd have to ask Killian if I have nothing else scheduled today."

In a matter of a seconds, Killian, who had been standing a few feet away to let the little family to their greetings, finds himself assaulted by Henry's most convincing pout and best puppy eyes. No one can resist those, and Emma sees him melting immediately – he's always had a soft spot for Henry. He basically saw him growing up, after all.

"Have fun, lad," he says, and it is enough to have Henry cheer even more loudly than before.

Of course, things aren't as simple as showing up to the places Henry wants to visit, because the paps would be on them in the blink of an eye, and Emma won't allow it. So it takes almost an hour to plan a simple visit to the zoo and the museum, calling both places and talking to their head of security, making sure everything will be as safe and quiet as possible for the artist and her son.

Their afternoon together is a nice one. Henry stuffs himself with candies and ice cream and sodas – she can see the sugar rush from there, good thing he isn't going to bed early tonight – as he talks about school and everything she missed while she was gone. She teases him over that one girl in his class he can't seem to shut up about, little blonde thing called Grace, and laughs at how embarrassingly red his cheeks get at the mere mention of his crush.

Mostly, Emma slips back into her job as a mother for a few hours. She forgets about shows and interviews and promotions, forgets about songs to write and contracts to signs. Today she is Emma, Mom, just Mom, having fun with her son and pretending she is like every other mother in this damn country, like she goes to museum field trips on a weekly basis and sees her kid every day.

(Sometimes, she wonders if he will resent her for it, when he'll be all grown-up. If he'll blame her for never being there for him, for basically being raised by his grandmother.)

(She knows, deep down, than he needs one word for her to give up on her career. One word only.)

He sits cross-legged on the floor of the stadium that evening, while she does her sound-check – one kid, all by himself, in a room way too huge for him, that makes them all laugh and Ruby can't help but take a picture of him in that moment.

And later, when it is time for her to actually perform live, to slip out of the mother persona and to go back to Emma Swan, famous singer and award-winner, she does it with Henry watching from the side of the stage. Killian's hand is on his little shoulder all through the show, mostly to keep him in check as Henry jumps and dances to the music, and Emma can only grin his way every so often, happy for him to be there.

Unsurprisingly, exhaustion takes him over at the end of the show, as he curls into the sofa in her room backstage and fall asleep in a matter of seconds. She rolls her eyes as she changes her clothes, and smiles when Killian hauls him into his arms like he weights nothing.

That night, she falls asleep with her son's warm breaths against her neck. The little beds in the bus are becoming too small for the two of them – she remembers her first summer of festivals and how he would sleep on her chest while they drove from one state to another – but she doesn't let that bother her. Not when she'll see him next for Christmas, and then fly to Europe for a few months.

…

_Poc. Poc. Poc. Poc_.

Ruby taps her foot against the floor, her high heel drumming a rhythm against the hard wood, over and over again – _poc, poc, poc_ – as she bites on the nail of her thumb. Emma focuses on the sound of shoe on floor – _poc, poc_ – because she doesn't want to focus on Killian's hushed whispers by the side of the room. Doesn't want to focus on the words, doesn't want to hear before he actually makes it official – doesn't want to guess, to imagine, to hope.

_Poc, poc, poc_…

"All right, thank you very much." _Poc_. "Goodbye."

He hangs up then, and Ruby's fidgeting stops. She sits on her hands, as to prevent herself from moving further. Emma watches the brunette move from her place next to her on the bed, idly wonders when exactly during the last past months Ruby became an official member of the team. It used to be just her and Killian – it isn't, anymore.

Killian, who coughs to catch her attention, and she turns too big, too scared eyes to his face, dreading what he is about to say – dreading it all, as always when it comes to award nominations. He holds his phone to his chest with both hands, like he holds a mic or a prize, lips slowly stretching into a smile, then a grin.

"Album of the year, song of the year, best rock performance, best rock album, best rock song, best video."

She hears Ruby shrieking beside her and she would share the feeling, really, if she weren't too busy gaping at nothing in particular, eyes and mouth wide open in stupor as she lists the nominations in her head, over and over again. All six of them, and she can't believe it because – _six_! Six of them! Six Grammy nominations!

_Snap_, comes the sound of Ruby's camera, and the brunette chuckles to herself as she stares at the screen of the device. That's when Emma comes back to earth, just in time to registers her friend's "That's _so_ going to Instagram right now."

Emma wants to protest, because that may as well be the most unflattering picture ever taken of her, but Killian agrees, says it's good to officially announce it on Emma's social networks as soon as possible. He says that with the hotel's phone tucked between his head and his shoulder as he orders champagne and complementary food, all the while sending a hundred texts of course.

Emma doesn't find it in herself to be upset about the picture as everything finally dawns on her, lazy grin blossoming on her lips – six nominations.

(He pulls her aside a few minutes later, looking a little grimmer all of a sudden. "You need to see this, love," he says as he shows her the screen of his phone. It's the list of the nominations in each category – the list of nominations, with her name just below that of another band. _Baelfire_. She swallows, sighs. It had to happen, eventually.)

…

They fly to Europe for a couple of shows – Marian And The Merry Men opens for her all through the European tour, and it's always so lovely to meet the band again, to spend her days with the lead singer, laughing and joking and sharing their feelings about being a mother and a musician – before they jump right back to Los Angeles for the Grammy Awards.

She wears the kind of clothes and jewellery usually reserved for celebrities ("You're a celebrity, love.") and pretends she isn't nervous about the night as they drive to the Staples Center. She's done awards shows before – has won a few of them, actually – but none of them were as big and as scary as tonight, as important for her career as a Grammy can be. She tries not to overthink it, but the six categories in which she's nominated keep coming back to haunt her, over and over again.

Her hand finds Killian's on the car's seat, and he entwines his fingers with hers wordlessly, squeezes her hand even as he doesn't look up from his phone. He doesn't need to – the presence of him is enough to ease her nerves a bit, even if it doesn't help her fully calm down. But she guesses she will remain in that state until the end of the night, anyway.

"You all right, Swan?" he asks as the car pulls over, uproar of fans heard by the other side of the window.

She knows he isn't just asking about the show – knows he's as anxious about the entire Baelfire business as she is. Still, she nods in reply, and even holds her head a little higher, as to prove him (and herself) that she is stronger than that.

His grin is dazzling in the dim lights of the car. "That's a good girl."

And then he's out of the car. He opens her door a few seconds later, and she's greeted on the red carpet by fans screaming her name and the flash of a hundred cameras. She misses Ruby, all of a sudden, misses her own photographer and how invisible she can make herself if she so wishes, taking pictures without being seen. The photographers here are loud and obnoxious, and the flashes give her a headache in the span of a few seconds. She blinks again the harsh lights and pulls her most professional smile on her lips as Killian pushes her forwards.

She knows the drill from there – pose for the cameras, smile, look happy to be here; give a few interviews; get to the fans and sign as many items as possible before being hushed inside. And she's about to do just that, looking at the photographers above her shoulder with her best smile, when she feels an arm around her waist, startles at the presence of someone beside her, at the warm accent to her ear.

"You snubbed me on the red carpet. How dare you!"

She laughs and grins up as her eyes meet soft blue ones, before she pulls Graham into a quick hug. "Congrats on the noms!" she tells him as she ignores the catcalls of the press around them. They will make it to all the websites tonight – Emma and Graham, reunited at last after breaking up a few years ago. It makes for perfect gossips, of course, even if the breakup wasn't an ugly one and they remained friends after that. But the journalists see what the journalists want to see.

"You too!" He presses a kiss to her cheek, then winks at her. "Better get going, then. I'll see you later?"

She nods and waves at him with a grin, before she lets Killian push her to the first journalist with a hand to the small of her back. Even through the fabric of her dress, she can feel how tense his fingers are against her skin, and she throws him a questioning glance. He shakes his head before nodding to the camera pointed at her face.

Even as she answers questions and is otherwise focused on the task at hand and the job she has to do, her brain comes to the conclusions for her.

Jealous. Killian was jealous.

…

The show happens in a blur of lights and emotions – Emma is too drunk on adrenaline to remember it all clearly, but she knows she performed on stage at some point, her latest hit, the one nominated for a bunch of categories. She also knows she won – three times – because she remembers going to the stage three times even if she can't recall any of those three speeches. Gosh. That will make for embarrassing stories, and she really does hope she hasn't forgotten to thank someone along the way.

At least that's her way to thoughts as she nurses a cup of champagne during the after-party, staring at the three awards in front of her on the table like she can't quite believe it to be true. The record label already called Killian to plan another American tour after the European one, with talks of a DVD too – everything to milk money from her. He's on the phone with god knows which magazine right now, giving an official statement. Has been doing so for the past half an hour, that and scheduling interviews for the following day – she guesses she'll catch on some hours of sleep on the plane to Berlin, then.

She checks her own phone, sends a reply to Ruby – they've been texting back and forth even since the show ended, and Henry called her all excited the minute she stepped out of the stage with her first award in hand. He must be sleeping now. At least she hopes he is.

"Is that Henry?"

The voice makes her freeze with her fingers on the screen, blood turning cold in her veins even if she doesn't dare looking up to the newcomer. She doesn't need to, would recognize his voice anywhere.

"As a matter of fact, no," she replies as coldly as possible.

She finishes her text for Ruby, forces herself not to wince as Neal takes the seat next to hers. She doesn't need this right now – doesn't need him to come and ruin her night when she was basking in her haze of victory and adrenaline, when everything was going so fine up until now. Avoiding him all night long had been a challenge, one she'd all too eagerly accepted.

With a sigh, she sends another text, to Killian this time – nothing but an octopus emoji, but he'll recognize the signal as soon as he's done with his current call. Which she hopes will happen as soon as possible.

"What do you want, Neal?"

She glares at him then, wants to slap the smirk off his face, wants to claw his eyes out. It's been years since his betrayal, since he took off with all the songs she had written, took off with his stupid band after promises of glory and fame and going on the road together. Years since he left her with nothing but a guitar on her back and a kid in her belly – years, but she'll never not be angry with him for it.

"How's the kid?"

"_The kid_ is none of your business."

They've been running circles with that conversation for half a decade now – since the moment two of his rare neurons decide to connect as he did the maths of Henry's age plus nine months. Her answer is the same every time, which never stopped Neal from asking. Obviously.

How she ever fell in love with him remains a mystery.

"He's my son, Ems…"

She isn't certain what upsets her more – the misplaced possessiveness or the nickname. It doesn't really matter anyway, when she's barking her reply. "He's not your son, he's _mine_."

"I have rights."

That's when fingers curl around her shoulder, the familiarity of their warmth almost making her sigh in relief as she leans into the touch. "You gave up on your rights the moment you didn't acknowledge paternity of the lad when he was born," comes Killian's answer, clipped and to the point. "But please, do send your lawyer to ours, we will be please to discuss this further more."

She barely conceals a smile at the way Neal glowers Killian's way. He's all talk, after all, and they all know he'll never have the balls to actually make it official, to actually drag this in front of a judge – mostly because he is certain to lose.

"This isn't over," he says, the threat caring little weight as he stands up and goes back to his stupid band where they stand in a corner, all nursing glasses of alcohol. Emma sits tall and proud, even when he's no longer looking her way, before she looks at Killian.

She doesn't need to say anything. She never does.

"Let's go, love."

She waits until she's in the car, shield from the eyes of paparazzi and fans alike, before she crumbles. It is too much too soon, and the tears spill even when she does her best to hold them back. Killian pulls her to him then, and so she kicks away her high heels as she snuggles against him, nose pressed to his neck, his arm an anchor around her waist.

Sometimes, she wonders what she would do without him. What she would do with a manager who doesn't know her by heart, who isn't privy of her every detail, her every secret.

Sometimes, she wonders how he managed to tear down the walls around her heart, how she gave him her trust without second thought, put her career as well as her life into his hands.

Tonight, she's simply glad that he's here, holding her until the sobs quiet down.

…

The European tour flashes by.

Literally.

She barely has time to acknowledge it happened before it's over. There are days spent in radio shows and giving interviews to magazines, photocalls and parties she needs to attend and meetings with that French brand of perfume, that Italian brand of clothes. And then there are the other days, when she blends into the crowd of tourists and explores the cities with Killian and Ruby by her side.

They climb to the top of the Eiffel tower and eat pizzas in Rome and have beers in a pub in London ("Home, sweet home!") and do all the cliché touristic things that are expected of people visiting the big European capitals. In the spur of the moment, and perhaps with a good dose of nostalgia, they show Ruby the pub in London where Killian heard Emma for the first time, that night she was playing on an open stage during an holiday trip with Ingrid and baby Henry.

She smiles as the memories flood her brain, smiles as she remembers that drunk guy grabbing her hand and asking if she already had a manager, if she'd been interested in one, telling her he would follow her to the States if needed, telling her he would make her a star. She had thought him a madman at that time – who wouldn't? – but here they are a decade later, Killian true to his word.

He winks at her above his tankard of beer, and laughs that chuckling laugh of his when the owner convinces her to play ("One song, Miss Swan! Just one song!"). She grabs a guitar and sits on a stool on stage, and videos of her performance go viral before midnight. Perfect free promo, Killian says as he flashes his dimples at her. She rolls her eyes and downs her beer.

The European tour flashes by and soon summer comes, and with it music festival. And with it, Henry too.

Ingrid puts him on a flight from New York to Paris, and off they go to the first of many festivals on their list. There's no keeping him quiet of course – Henry knows most of the places like the back of his hand and is on first name basis with basically any band known to earth – so Emma lets him run around backstage, knowing no harm will come to her.

(Baelfire are stuck on the Warped Tour for the summer anyway, so she doesn't have to worry about that for now.)

Henry isn't the only one excited about it, though. Festivals are always the perfect way to have fun with other musicians, some of which are her friends. Marian And The Merry Men keep opening for her, and they're soon joined by Graham, and the Warrior Royals, and Belle Lacy.

Needless to say, Emma rarely goes to bed sober, but that's the beauty of festivals.

…

Henry climbs into Marian's bus one night, to play video games with Roland as they travel from one country to another, from one stage to another. It makes for a quiet bus that night, something Emma no longer is used to.

She sits at one of the tables at the back of the bus, scribbling on her notebook. Even if they have a few more dates in the fall, soon she will be expected back in the studios, and so she needs twenty-something songs by then. Not that she's all that inspired tonight, exhaustion deep into her bones, muscles sore.

"Lost your muse?"

Killian plops down opposite her, and she's surprised not to see his phone in his hands for once. Sometimes she swears it's an extension of his body. But not tonight, as he's only sporting an easy smile and some massive bed hair. She smiles back.

"She abandoned me at the _Vieilles Charrues_, I'm afraid," she replies, the French name rolling awkwardly on her tongue.

"Oh, shoo."

She laughs softly, pen still scribbling nonsense on the paper. It will come – it always does, as long as she's patient enough to let it happen.

"How are you, love?"

When she looks up, it's to worry in his blue eyes, and the concern she reads there surprise her. Not that Killian doesn't usually care about her – he's paid for that, basically – but there is a softness in his eyes that throws her off-balance, like something telling her that the question is about more that her sleep schedule.

"I'm fine," she says, but it rings false even to her own ears. She winces.

"Cassidy still worrying you?"

Damn him for knowing her so well. He'd told her once that she was an open book to him and, no matter how true it is, sometimes she wishes she wasn't. It would be easier, to pretend nothing is wrong with her, to pretend she is strong and stoic and the guy who impregnated her doesn't scare her half to death.

Killian's fingers wrap around her hand, the one still holding the pen. His thumb slowly starts drawing circle on her wrist, comforting in ways a professional relationship shouldn't be. She holds her breath, wishes the surge of emotions to go away – she can't think that way. Refuses to think that way about him.

"He won't take the lad from you, love. I will make sure he doesn't."

He has no way of making such promises – promises are meant to be broken, after all, nothing but words, words, words. But he's Killian, and so she trusts him, trusts his promises.

Because he would give her the moon, if she asked.

…

It's raining cats and dogs when the make it to Reeding – both Ruby and Emma giving Killian _the_ look that says it all, as he purposefully ignores their mocking stares. The place is one big muddy mess, people smiling despite the dirty clinging to their legs and the wet clothes on their backs – they are here for the music, not the weather, and music is exactly what Emma will offer.

She shoves rain boots in Henry's arms, even if she knows it won't stop him from coming back to the bus with mud from head to toes, before she picks warm clothes for herself. It wouldn't do to catch a cold right now, so she had a woollen scarf too, just in case, as Killian opens an umbrella and leads her to the stage – alone, for once, for they agreed Ruby could take the night off instead of braving the weather, lucky her.

Still, the audience is as excited as they are soaked to the bones and, even if their feet stuck in the mud don't allow for jumping and dancing, they manage to have fun with Emma's every song, screaming back when she talks to them, cheering at the end of her setlist. She does three more songs after that, even with her cheeks red with cold and her every limb shivering from the rain.

Killian wraps her in a big fluffy blanket the moment she steps out of the stage, rubbing his hand up and down her back to bring some warmth back to her body. She smiles gratefully, before nodding for him to open his umbrella and be done with it. All she wants right now is the comfort of her bed and a hot chocolate between her hands.

They don't exactly run but they make their way to the bus as quickly as possible – that is, until the wind grows stronger, the rain more unforgiving, and Killian pulls her toward a nearby tent, one with "press" written on it in big letters. It is thankfully empty, all the journalists gone this late at night, and so Emma jumps up and down a few times, shakes her head to get rid of the water clinging to her hair.

"Bloody hell," Killian says as he closes the door behind them. It's not enough to keep warm – it's nothing but a tent, after all – but at least it's not windy and rainy inside. Which is more than enough, if you ask for Emma's opinion.

"I hate your stupid country," she tells him.

But her voice carries little strength. Mostly she's tired from the show she just gave, adrenaline no longer running through her veins. Tired, and freezing. He must see it, or perhaps must hear her teeth chattering, because he's on her in an instant, rubbing her arms rigorously.

Emma doesn't notice how close he is until she looks up to him but when she does, it's the only think she can think of. She can feel the warmth of him even through the layers of clothes, and she stares at the way droplets of water cling to his eyelashes – it makes his eyes a more vibrant blue, piercing and inviting, and all Emma wants is to drown in them.

The thought is surprisingly, though not unwelcomed. Killian is a very attractive man, after all, and it would be lying to say she didn't think about it at least once. Still, fleeting fantasies hold little strength wen she leans forwards, one hand pressed to his chest. His heart drums against her fingertips, faster the closer she gets.

"Emma…" he says.

A plead. A warning.

But then her lips are on his, soft and tentative. His mouth is warm and inviting, and so is his embrace when he wraps his arms around her, pulls her to him as he deepens the kiss with a hum at the back of his throat. The rain soon becomes background noise, then silence, the wind long forgotten when his tongue brushes against hers, when his burning hand slip beneath her sweater.

She sighs into his mouth, angles her head just the right way, hand pressed to his neck, chest flushed against his. It might be minutes or it might be hours before she breaks away, blushing and panting.

His lips are swollen and his eyes dark – it's the most beautiful sight.

…

She writes some thirty songs by the time she's back in the studios.

When she releases the first track, one entitled _As you wish_, media and fans alike make it their mission to find who the lyrics are about – it is only then that she realises not once in her career she wrote a love song before. It makes for a good mystery until it doesn't when a sneaky paparazzi takes a picture of them kissing at Coachella.

Emma chokes on her own laughter at Killian's scandalized face when he learns that the fans are now calling him her _cob_.


End file.
